


I'll close my eyes, 'cause then I won't see

by Phone Guy (orphan_account)



Category: Five Nights at Freddy's
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Christmas, Drugs, Hallucinations, I Wrote This Instead of Sleeping, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, Implied/Referenced Suicide, Insanity, Masturbation, Mental Health Issues, References to Drugs, Sexual Content, Sexual Fantasy, Suicide, This Fic is a Wild Ride
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-25
Updated: 2015-08-25
Packaged: 2018-04-17 04:09:48
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,021
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4651743
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/Phone%20Guy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sometimes, Scott liked to forget. And forgetting meant he drugged himself until he became so numb, that he couldn't feel himself breathe.</p>
            </blockquote>





	I'll close my eyes, 'cause then I won't see

**Author's Note:**

> Authors Note: So many theories. So little time.

 Sometimes, Scott liked to forget. And forgetting meant he drugged himself until he became so numb, that he couldn't feel himself breathe.

 It was the only way, now. The only way to feel okay for just a few hours. Nobody knew, and nobody cares, anyway. His family was better off without him, after all. His mum and dad didn't need his bullshit anymore, they didn't _deserve_ it; or so he believed. He had no friends, no family to go to, not even any coworkers or anything of the sort. However, he wasn't alone, no. Not at work. For six hours during the night, he would be surrounded by activity only to be seen to be believed; and it kept him busy, preoccupied instead of thinking about anything else.

 But his life was only ever good for six hours, sometimes more depending on the kind of day it was at the pizzeria. He would go home, try to eat something, and then go into his room, where he'd sit motionless for hours on end. The drugs really did do something, alright. People would tell him that its bad, and that he was killing himself, but honestly. He didn't care. It was his own life and he could do what he wanted to; but nobody was around anymore, so nobody noticed. And that was always better, being alone all the time, because it gave him more time to think; people were just such a pain. Such a burden. So much work.

 So he would take everything he had, sometimes hardly knowing what he was putting into his system; he'd smoke, snort, swallow, inject, do whatever he had to do and take as much as he knew he could handle; and then take a few swigs from the bottle, and wait. The waiting period was usually short, as he would stare at the empty wall and begin to see things. Sometimes those things were very fun, pleasant, such as flowers and butterflies and animals, and sometimes they could be very horrifying. Things would come from the wall out of a portal, and he could do nothing, because he was so fucking high that he couldn't even move. Sometimes he'd have vivid flashbacks of those kids, those stupid fucking kids, and they'd come for him. They would come for him, but he was so relieved to wake up to find out that they still haven't found him. They were still in those suits, trapped, dead, decaying.

 Suits. Oh, right, work. Its time for work again.

 And so Scott would force himself to get up, puke up whatever he could in the toilet, and then change and go to work. Sometimes is he was lucky, he'd get some sleep or a shower, or eat if he was feeling up to it. He was starting to feel his muscles decay, he really needed to get back to the gym.

 With what money, though? He was barely paying bills.

 Maybe things would be better if _she_ was here. She was always such a good sport, her beautiful blonde hair and blue eyes, glasses that sparkled under the moonlight. Her smooth skin and her tall figure, her jokes and her advice. She was the one that really kept Scott in line, even at his darkest moments. She would never be scared, or cry or freak out or even get sad when he was having a breakdown. She was always there, and she always helped him. But she was gone, now. She was somewhere in LA, or NYC, Scott has no idea. After the divorce (he's only twenty seven. He was only married for around three years.) (They were dating since high school, and they broke up a few years ago.) they haven't talked. And she was right for not contacting him, he wouldn't, either. Their son was dead, and it was his fault. He was crushed, and Scott didn't notice until it was too late. But that was four years ago, its almost nineteen eighty seven now. It would be Christmas in a week, Scott's least favorite holiday. (Correction. He hated all holidays, but he'd put on the façade for work.)

 "Scott? Scott! Its so good to hear from you! What time will you be coming up, for Christmas? I know [Lauren ](https://www.google.com/#q=his+ex+wife)and [Jake ](https://www.google.com/#q=his+alive+son)are going to be coming."

 "Actually, i cant. Work needs me, you know the deal."

 His mother sighed and frowned, through the phone, Scott knew this. "Scotty....its been almost four years since you've been home. Since anyone's actually seen you! Are you alright?"

 "Yeah, yeah, i'm good! Promise!" Scott was always good at pretending to be okay, pretending to be calm like nothing scared him.

 Its a talent.

 "Well, i hope we'll see you soon..." She mumbled, hanging up the phone, sounds of his little brothers and sisters arguing playfully in the background. It sounded like a home.

 Scott had big plans this Christmas, like always. Spend some quality time at the pizzeria, go out for a while, maybe get some new clothes or something. Drive around. Go sit by the frozen ocean, and then go home, and get shitfaced. Like every Christmas, however, he'd consider the big question; is being alive still fucking _worth_ _it_? Sometimes he felt like a high schoo[l](https://www.google.com/#q=aka+me) girl, thinking about things like that. He hasn't self-harmed since he was fourteen, but maybe this was self harm, or suicide. It was letting himself be fucking free, away from this place, away from everything.

 And who knows, maybe this Christmas will be the one to do that.

 He exited the pizzeria as it closed for the holidays, he walked to his snow covered car. The temperature must be at most forty degrees, however, he wore a hoodie and his normal work clothes. Cold didn't bother him too much, hell, he could probably strip naked and lay in the snow without too much trouble. He probably should, too, but instead of just laying there he should cover himself in it and go to sleep. Then maybe he'll wake up, not on earth, but in hell. At least it would be warm down there.

 "Think positive for once" He mumbled to himself, driving on an abandoned back road, the ocean in sight. "Just calm down. Everything is fine."

 He reached the frozen beach and parked his car, walking out on the snowy sand. He carefully tested the ice to make sure he wouldn't fall though, and walked on it. It was calming, nothing but ice in sight. It was almost dusk, so nobody else was out here this time of night. It felt good.

 And for the first time in forever, he was calm for a while. He felt alright, until he got back into his car and went home. The car ride back to his house was always the worst, because he knows that he's going to do something life ruining when he gets there. Its pretty astounding, actually, being able to ruin your life so fucking bad but still remain as calm and sane as he does. Well, most of the time. He does let himself slip in public, every now and then. Its mostly when he's around children, because he'll just get angry. And anger makes people do stupid stuff.

 He unlocked the key to his house and walked in, laying on the couch almost instinctively. He was walking for a few hours, so of course he was tired.

 As he lay on the couch (he needed a new one. The one he had was mostly torn and old. He was almost positive that it was his grandmothers, he cant remember.) he let his mind wander; and when that happens, it usually means that he would think about something either incredibly fucked up or incredibly sexual. However, this time he got lucky; because his mind wandered to sexual.

 'How long has it been since ive been laid?' He thought with a frown. He hardly ever goes out or talks to people, let alone social interaction. 'Lets see...two months? Three?'

 Its a good of time as any. He unbuttoned his pants and slid his left hand down onto his downstairs, trying to think of something to release the pent up stress and sexual frustration he undoubtedly had.

 Foxy was the first thing to come to mind. His soft red fur pressed up against him, his hook leaving small cuts on his back as Scott thrusted into the pirate; or, the other way around. He could go either way, honestly, he didn't care. It was just a fantasy, after all. The pirate would bite his neck hardly, leaving marks and bruises. And Scott wouldn't take it easy, no, Foxy wanted it _hard_. He could take it, and he knows that if he didn't go hard that Foxy would think he had the upper hand, and he cant have that. So Scott would pound, hard and deep into the Fox, and listen to his moans and cries of pleasure and pain all at the same time. He imagined what the pirate would look like beneath him, its body not as broken as it actually was, its voice able to speak. Speak to Scott, moan and beg for more, more, _more_.

 Next thing Scott knew, he had came with a grunt all over his shirt. It had been less than three minutes since he even started, and if that wasn't proof that he needed to get out more than he wasn't sure what was. But getting out was the least of his problems, honestly.

 He decided that getting totally shit faced and high shouldn't be next on his agenda. No, instead he grabbed a bag of animal crackers from his cabinet and sat back down on his couch (after washing his hands and changing his shirt; he was sort of a clean freak.), turning on the TV. It had been so long since he had watched a Christmas move, in fact, never since the death of....never mind. He grabbed the remote and flipped on the TV, skimming through the channels until he found a decent looking movie; and unfortunately, that movie was Mickeys Christmas Carol, nineteen eighty three. Its been a few years since he's seen it, so he decided to watch it. At least for a while. Scott shoved some of the sugary animal crackers into his mouth, savoring the taste; how long has it been, since he last ate something? A week? He realized that, no fucking wonder his muscles were 'decaying'. He hadn't been eating at all, and his body couldn't keep up with that. His meal plans were none, and every time he did eat it was very small and he often threw it right up anyway. Its like his stomach forgot what food was, and that it was a fucking necessity for life.

 Its not like it mattered anymore, anyway. It looks like he could live without a lot of 'necessities'.

 After a while, he began to feel tired, and walked into his room. He took a short glance at the calendar, realizing that it was Christmas Eve already. Time goes by fast if you preoccupy yourself. (And in his case, that meant moping around, feeling sorry for himself.)

 So he drugged himself up, more than usual, silently hoping that his body could take it, and curled up in bed.

 

* * *

 

 

 The next thing he heard was the sound of the front door opening, and it startled him from his high state. He had no idea how long it had been, or what day it was, or who he was, or if this was simply a hallucination. But whatever it was, he knew that nothing was supposed to be in his house. Nothing.

 He grabbed a bat from under his bed and exited his room with a huff. He could barely walk, being so fucking melted and drunk at the same time. But he was able to suck it up, though, with whatever energy and muscle he had left. (It must have been those cookies giving him the little bit of energy he had, huh?)

 "Scott?" He heard a female voice call.

 "I-i....who are you?!" He yelled in the darkness, still holding his bat, standing at the corner of the hallway from his living room.

 "Scotty, its your mom and dad. I brought Lauren, Jake, and Hailey and Alex. We're here to see you. Its Christmas!" (Hailey and Alex were his little brother and sister.)

 Oh, fuck.

 "W-wait, don't come in here. Ill be out in a second!"

 "Why is it so dark?" Hailey mumbled, his family taking it apon themselves to turn on the lights and make themselves at home. (Which was normal.)

 Scott ran back to his room, turning on the light and throwing the bloody bat to the corner. Oh, no no no no no. He was still high, still drunk off his ass. His room was scattered with the remnants of it, his arms had marks from the injections and his eyes were about as red as could be. He couldn't tell them to leave, no, they would know something's up. But he couldn't go out there looking like that, he had been saying he's been sober for years now. He slid on a black hoodie and a pair of shades, hoping that nobody would notice that he wasn't alright, and that he really wished that none of them were there. How did they get his address, again? Did he give it to them? He couldn't remember, and honestly. None of that mattered now, he had to make sure that they had a good time, got to see him, and left. And that would be the end of that.

 "Oh, Scotty!" His mother cooed, wrapping her arms around him. "Sorry to surprise you like this, but we know that work thing is bullshit, and we haven't seen you in years!"

 He hugged back half heartedly, with a smile. "Why are you wearing those sun glasses, inside?"

 "Oh. I...have some really bad eye infections. I don't want you guys to g-get scared by it. Its pretty gross."

 She nodded but kept her smile, his dad next to hug him. "Good to see you, son," He said, his voice sturdy as always. "You too."

 It seemed that the kids had already broken out his video game console, playing whatever wasn't broken on his TV. Well, it was better then them looking around and snooping, finding something they shouldn't have.

 "Scott" Lauren said with a forced half smile. "Lauren, good to see you could actually bare to see me. How proud your parents must be."

 She scoffed, but kept her smile. She said nothing in return but look back to the kids, and sit on the couch next to them.

 "So what's your plan?" Scott asked his mother. "I mean, i didn't plan anything. Sorry."

 "Well," She begun with a shrug. "I don't know. Just thought maybe we could hang out, as a family, like old times."

 "I can go pick up some food to cook, if that'll work. I don't really have anything here."

 His mother smiled and nodded. "Yeah, that would be great! I could help you cook it, too."

 Scott forced a smile. "Yeah, yeah! Of course. Ill just, uh....go do that. But mom?"

 "Yes, sweetheart?"

 "Did you really have to invite her? You know what happened between us, to _him_."

 "I know, Scotty. I know. But its good that you two still spend time together, i mean your son hasn't seen you in years. Spend some time with him, just today, he needs a father."

 "I heard she already got another husband."

 "Well, he needs you, baby doll. He needs his real father."

 

 Scott ran to the store, zigzagging in the road, barely sober enough to drive. He quickly ran to the supermarket, grabbed the nesceccities for a Christmas dinner and ran out as soon as possible. He hated going to the store, because he felt judged by all the people there, like he was an alien on earth. (And not the Mexican kind. But he got what he needed, and got out as soon as possible. He packed the foul smelling plastic bags into the back seat and quickly drove back to his little house in the middle of a town that he really wished he didn't live in. Honestly, living in a different country seemed to be a good option about now. The police were on his ass, he barely had enough money to get buy, the bills for his meds were becoming too high to even handle, things like that. But the thought of leaving the pizzeria behind wasn't one that he was willing to take, no matter what. Now that he thought about it, the pizzeria was the only reason he wasn't dead yet. (That and his son, of course. He still loved his son to some extent, however, he was the cause of his other sons death. So its not like he adored the little fucker, but he was still Scotts. His blood. His family.)

 However, as he pulled into his driveway, he noticed that his family was leaving. His mother was pushing them out of his house, a stern and angry look on her face.

 "W-Whats going on?" Scott asked, slightly terrified of what she had to say.

 "How long?"

 "How long what?"

 "How long have you been lying to us about being sober?"

 Scott was speechless. "I... I...."

 "Do you fucking _understand_ that everything you touch with your hands gets infected? My kids have been sitting on the couch you probably fucking get blazed on, Scott. Your room, is a literal fucking war zone. Have you seen it, or are you high right now? ... Oh, that's why you wore those glasses. Your high, aren't you?"

 He said nothing.

 "Don't you _ever_ call me, don't you call **us**. I want you to stay gone until your one hundred percent sober."

 

 Sometimes, Scott liked to forget. And forgetting meant he drugged himself until he became so numb, that he couldn't feel himself breathe.


End file.
